“So? I’m not going to be in Boston forever. Perhaps I’ve wandered into the Cheese and Plunder.”
“The what?”
“That’s the name of the pub nearest to Archer Hall. No idea what it means, so don’t ask. I had to drive into the village, though. My Jaguar’s out front. Might as well make this exercise worth my while and increase my consequence.” Griffin was getting into the spirit of things. His face quite transformed when he wasn’t looking worried.
“Can I see the car from where I’m sitting?”
“No. You’ll be impressed later when I drive you and your dog home and I get lucky.”
She gave him a stern look. “My dog might not like that. He’s very protective of my virtue.”
“We’ll shut him in the scullery if he barks. Now where were we?”
Carrie rubbed her thigh. She was losing circulation sitting all pretzeled up on the floor.
“Much too obvious. I won’t go home with a tart.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter! My leg is falling asleep! Aren’t there chairs somewhere?”
“Hang on.” He jumped up, all of his appendages in good working order, and took a look upstairs. “You’re in luck, Miss Moore,” he hollered from above.
He came down with two webbed folding chairs and set them side by side by the workbench. “See? We’re at the bar. Bring the wine over.”
Carrie did as she was told. This was much more fun than watching him work on contracts.
“All right, I’ve just come in. You’re sitting by yourself.”
“With the dog,” Carrie reminded him.
“Yes, yes. Who’s been a good boy?” He bent over the imaginary dog and patted the air. “That’s a nice dog you’ve got there, miss.”
“Thank you.” Carrie took a sip of wine.
“I haven’t seen you here before, have I? I thought I knew all the pretty girls in the village.”
She set her cup down with a splash. “Oh, really, just no. None of this pretty girl business. And don’t ask what’s my sign. You’re being cheesy.”
Griffin brushed his hair back. He did have that floppy Hugh Grant hair thing going on. “We are at the Cheese and Plunder. Well, what should I say?”
She poked his chest. Well, his sweater, actually. It was very soft, blue and kind of matched his eyes. Did he buy it on purpose or had it been a present? Did he know just how devastatingly hot he looked in it?
“I’m not going to help you seduce me. This is for your benefit, remember. I won’t be with you when you meet your millionairess to give you tips.”
“Very well.” He was quiet for a full minute. “We can’t talk about politics or religion. I can’t tell you that you’re pretty. The horoscope and the weather are out of the question—much too boring even for me. So I guess it’s back to the dog. What’s his name?”
“Fitz.”
“Hello, Fitz! Doesn’t he love it when I scratch him right there?”
Carrie wouldn’t mind being lightly scratched by those long fingers, right along her bare spine as she lay nestled in Griffin Archer’s arms. Whoa! Down girl. She sat up a little taller in her sagging chair.
“How old is he?”
“Who?”
“The dog, silly.”
“A year.”
“Still a puppy then. I bet he likes to chew your shoes.” Griffin brushed his hand on her boot. She couldn’t feel a thing through the leather.
“Sometimes. Last week he took one of my slippers into the garden and buried it under a lilac bush.” She envisioned hollyhocks and delphiniums, too, hydrangeas and old-fashioned roses that actually smelled. Mrs. Stephens kept an English garden at her “cottage” and employed a nice young woman named Jessie who maintained it and it had been glorious this summer.
“It probably smells better than a rose to him. You do smell rather lovely, like our English spring. Fresh.”
“Th-thank you.” He was doing something with his voice so that she had to lean in to hear him. And his eyes were piercing in a good way behind his lenses, as if he’d never want to look at another person but her.
“I think you’re new here, aren’t you? May I buy you another drink? I’m Griffin Archer from the Hall.” He stuck his hand out. Carrie took it and shook it, trying not to enjoy the touch of his warm palm too much. “You can ask anyone here—I’m not a dangerous axe-murderer.” He dropped her hand and waved at the non-existent customers.
“Is there such a thing as a safe axe-murderer?”
“Oh, there must be. Some chap who looks perfectly normal until he takes a whack at you. I am not he either.”
“You said the Hall. What hall?”
“Sorry. Archer Hall. An ancient Jacobean pile of brick and stone that needs a monumental amount of repair, and, unfortunately, I don’t have the money. If you decide you like me, we’re going to have to go to your place.” He gave her a winsome smile. This combination of confidence and self-deprecation was very charming.
“I’m not that sort of girl,” Carrie said, lying. She might be with him.
“No, I never thought you were. That would be much too perfect for me, and I’ve found things in life are seldom perfect. What brings you to Lower Topsham?”
Topsham. That was Alice’s last name. So a whole village was named for her family, and Griffin lived just outside it. Imagine having to drive by a sign with your ex-lover’s name on it every time you came home.
“I’m . . . on vacation. For the summer. I suppose there’s an Upper Topsham too?” Carrie asked.
“No, oddly enough, just East Topsham. You Yanks must think us geographically challenged. I love your accent, by the way.” Apparently eyes really could twinkle.
“You’re the one with the accent.”
“I beg to differ. You’re on my home turf. And we started it all, the settling of America. You were ours.”
Carrie’s eyes narrowed. “I think that was the French and Spanish, depending on the territory. Or maybe even the Vikings.”
“So why aren’t you parlez-vousing Francais or habla Espanoling? I’m afraid I don’t know any Viking verbs. No, admit it. You belong to me.” Griffin cupped her cheek with featherweight fingertips, just the barest imprint. Carrie shivered as those fingers moved up to pluck off her glasses. He removed his with his other hand, and they leaned forward over the workbench, just a breath away, staring myopically into each other’s eyes.
“I’m going to welcome you to England now,” Griffin whispered.
“O-okay.”
He was going to kiss her. And then this playacting would be over.
Damn it.
One finger traced her cheekbone. Griffin’s touch made her believe she had cheekbones.
“You’re going to be sorry there was a revolution.”
“Make me sorry.” Her voice was so husky she sounded like Lauren Bacall with a frog in her throat. Carrie was a sucker for old black and white movies.
“Oh, you’re going to be so sorry. Depend upon it.”
She was sorry he wasn’t getting on with it already. She could count his every eyelash at this distance.
Her lids dropped in invitation. That also helped her from going cross-eyed.
One . . . two . . . three . . . three and a half.
Griffin’s lips met hers at last. They were firm. Soft. A host of other adjectives that Carrie couldn’t think of right now. It was true—she had no facility with the English language. His tongue edged into the seam of her mouth and she opened just a little to him. He coaxed her further, and before she knew it he’d angled her face beneath his hands, holding her still so he could have his wicked way with her.
Ah! She was retrieving some of her vocabulary as she concentrated on the sensations sparking through her body. Griffin’s kiss was like the man—controlled, determined, a bit playful when provoked. Carrie tried to be as provoking as possible and was not disappointed in the result. Her nipples peaked beneath her sweater, and somehow Griffin knew. One hand worked its leisurely way down h
er jaw to the cotton knit blend on her neck to her curving shoulder where the cable stitches began.
Lower please.
Psychic Griffin complied, palming her breast and giving it the gentlest of caresses. Would he detect her bra was padded? Just a little. Would it matter? She was honest to a fault in everything else.
Too honest. For she wanted to break the kiss and get them away from the faux bar and the folding chairs so they could get horizontal on the blanket.
She was not usually a “do it on a first date” kind of girl. Of course, this wasn’t exactly a date—she hadn’t had an actual date since July when one of the summer guys took her out on his boat. Carrie had kept her life jacket on the whole time and had been unimpressed as he reefed the sails or whatever you did tacking or jibing. The island had looked pretty from the water but her date had been grabby and entitled and she had kept him at bay. At bay on the bay! Ha.
There were so many reasons this whole thing with Griffin was unwise, even if he was nothing like that Master of the Universe summer guy. But as long as she pretended she was the young woman in the Cheese and Plunder with her invisible dog, Lord Archer could plunder all he wanted.
He drew her closer, sweeping his tongue lazily on her palate and inside her cheek. She felt herself turning into pudding, vanilla as opposed to plum which was a dense, solid thing. She was getting soft and mushy. The English used ‘pudding’ to describe all desserts, but nothing could beat the sweetness of Griffin Archer’s kiss.
He was proficient, taking his time, minding the details. He must be like that at work, coordinating all the variables until everything came together in one perfect combination. Carrie’s scalp tingled and her stomach gave that tell-tale tug. It was as if Griffin had pushed her lust button and there was no retreat or reset.
She was supposed to be resisting his seduction. Hell, in their little play, she’d never even told him her name. Did he go around kissing every strange girl he met? If he did, he was good at it and they were damn lucky.
Since he was still massaging her breast, it was only fair she did something to him with her own hands. What? She touched his cheek, discovering tiny bristles. They must be super-blond, for she’d seen no evidence of any five o’clock shadow. Carrie couldn’t check the color out now since her eyes were resolutely shut, but she let them tickle her fingertips.
He had great skin. Warm. Everything about him was pretty great, really. Especially his tongue, which was doing things to hers she hadn’t known were possible. She hadn’t had a proper kiss in years, though this kiss would soon border on improper if she had any say in the matter.
Carrie took his hand from her breast and led him to the hem of her sweater. Mrs. Stephens had bragged how smart her nephew was, citing IGCSE scores, whatever they were, and he didn’t need written directions to find his way under the fabric. Carrie sucked in her little pooch and prayed for him to go north. She was wearing white cotton granny panties, something she would have avoided if she had known she would miss the ferry and be compromised by a viscount instead.
Griffin stroked upward to her peach Victoria’s Secret bra—it at least was worthy of inspection, almost new with pretty lace edging. He peeled the left cup down and suddenly she was being held skin to skin and feeling treasured. His thumb worked a circle around her aching nipple. If it got any sharper, she might stab him. He made a stuttering sound in his throat, sounding as excited as she was.
His left hand was buried in the hair at her nape, and goose pimples were dancing down her spine. It was impossible to sit up straight anymore, and as lovely as touching his bristly cheek was, Carrie wanted more. She slid two fingers under the ‘v’ of his sweater. Jumper—that’s what they called a sweater in England, which made no sense to her at all. Jumpers were like sleeveless dresses here. The pulse at the base of his neck twitched as she smoothed her forefinger over his clavicle. Or maybe his collarbone. She was as stupid about anatomy as she was about penguins.
Griffin didn’t know her shortcomings, although he must have figured out her bra was padded by now. He gave a little growl and nipped her lip, the metal of the chair scraping against the concrete as he pushed closer. Carrie was going to fall through the slats of the worn webbing any second now, and with the greatest reluctance she drew back and broke the kiss.
Griffin opened his eyes and she felt punched by their intensity. His hand was still under her sweater, but the delicious circling had stopped.
“We should—”she began nervously.
“I’m sorry—”
They had both spoken at once.
Carrie took a deep breath. “Why are you sorry?”
“Answer me first. What do you think we should do?”
Chapter 4
BY NOW, IMAGINARY Fitz would have barked himself hoarse and torn Griffin to shreds for importuning his mistress. His hand still covered the gentle swell of Carrie’s perfect breast, and his tongue had recently tasted heaven. He felt like a dog himself, off his leash and in deep trouble.
When had their game turned so serious? He was surprised to find himself under a dimming shop light, its hum and snap competing with the howling wind outside. In his mind he’d been in the shadowy pub with Carrie, claiming her for the Crown.
She reached for her glasses, but Griffin stopped her with a quick “don’t.” He had a need to see her brown eyes and gold-tipped lashes unmasked. That chocolate morsel at the corner of her kiss-reddened mouth remained intriguing. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could feel her heart race under his palm.
Griffin couldn’t seem to move his hand away. But he was an English gentleman, wasn’t he? He put the molded cup back up where it belonged and took his hand away from where it didn’t.
“Tell me what you want us to do,” he repeated, straightening Carrie’s sweater.
She sat back in her chair and blurred a bit around the edges. “Not until you tell me what you’re apologizing for. Can I—oops, may I have my glasses now?”
“All right.” He picked up his own frames and put them on. She was in sharp definition now, and he could practically see her raised quills. He who speaks first loses. He counted to sixty, but nothing happened. “It seems we’re at an impasse.” He wasn’t really sorry—how could he be? But it had seemed like the expected thing to say.
“I’m not sorry, and I’m the one who should be.” She was angry. No, irritated.
“Why should you be? I rather thought we were enjoying each other.”
“Were we? Then what did you mean?”
Griffin shrugged. “You know how we Brits are. Polite to a fault. There are classic Monty Python sketches to prove it. Of course, the Canadians have us beat. They are the true gentlemen when they’re not playing hockey.” He was stepping in more muck with every sentence.
Her mouth twisted. “Hockey?”
“What I mean to say is that if my kiss in any way offended you—if I overstepped my bounds or touched you where I shouldn’t have—and I clearly did and deserve a thorough tongue-lashing—” Oh, God. Worse and worse. He knew just where he’d like Carrie’s tongue to lash and shifted with discomfort in the old beach chair. “Anyway, consider it a pre-emptive apology. I’m bound to do something else any minute now.”
“That’s what I had in mind,” Carrie muttered.
“Sorry? I mean, I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
She fluffed up her already fluffy hair. “You must feel triumphant. I was easy.”
“Well, you couldn’t help yourself. It was my innate charm that did you in. And clearly your dog likes me.” Griffin felt it safer to stay in character than deal with the real thread of attraction that was between them.
Carrie Moore wasn’t his type at all. He’d always gone for tall, willowy blue-eyed blondes. Like Alice. England was chock-full of them. All his previous girlfriends could have been his sister.
Gah. There was something Freudian about that Griffin didn’t want to examine any closer.
Carrie’s arms were folded over her breasts. He
knew now she was not quite as well-endowed as she appeared, but that made no difference to him. She was smallish everywhere, except for her big brown eyes, which were glaring at him. She wasn’t thin, though, but rounded nicely in all the right places. Like a compact little fire hydrant. Sturdy. Dependable.
He’d never tell her that.
“Don’t be cross with me, please. It’s Christmas.”
Except it wasn’t in their fantasy. She was in Lower Topsham for her summer vacation.
Griffin switched tactics. “Pardon me, I’m confused. That kiss has gone straight to my head like champagne. I say, do you plan on going to the church fete this August?” he asked.
She pointed a finger at him like a cranky governess. He’d had a few of those—somehow his father never got around to paying them. “Stop.”
“Sorry? I mean, ‘what’ as you Americans would say.”
“You don’t need any more practice to charm the pan—um, to succeed with women. That was very impressive. All of it.”
Griffin felt a blush coming on. “It’s good to know I haven’t completely atrophied.”
Truer words were never spoken. His cock was rampant. He hadn’t been this aroused in a while.
Not even with Alice, he realized, and he’d planned to marry her. Had he simply been going through the motions, doing what was expected? They’d understood each other and the milieu they inhabited. Got along perfectly well, never had spats. Griffin had loved her, hadn’t he? He’d been crushed when she’d told him about the goddamned Marquis of Ellingwood. Ellingwood was older, rich, settled—the last two of which Griffin might never achieve.
Was it his pride or his heart that suffered? For the first time since Alice broke their engagement, he wasn’t sure.
Carrie was tugging her jumper down and fidgeting with the fitting of her bra straps. He’d like to help relieve her of both.
Well, why not? They were stuck here until tomorrow. There were hours left in the night. They could make a pact to never breathe a word to Aunt Rosemary. His aunt would not approve of him taking advantage of her employee.
Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) Page 5